


enough with the butterflies

by nightswatch



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightswatch/pseuds/nightswatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has a bit of a migraine and Grantaire isn't so sure if he should leave Enjolras alone like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	enough with the butterflies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainflash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainflash/gifts).



> For [silentlaiqalasse](http://silentlaiqalasse.tumblr.com/), who won a 5000 word fic in my giveaway.
> 
> The prompt was: a hurt/comfort fic in which Grantaire takes care of Enjolras 
> 
> I hope you like it!

 “You okay?” Grantaire asks, foregoing a proper greeting.

That’s one of those things that Enjolras will easily forgive him. These days, Enjolras is more inclined to forgive Grantaire in general, and he’d lie if he said that it hasn’t thrown him off quite a bit. 

Even without the sheepish smiles and the casual talks and the lack of death stares, Enjolras throws him off. Enjolras has always thrown him off in some way or other. It’s just one of those things that he does, aside from having soft hair and trying to save the world. The soft hair in particular is an issue. 

But it’s not an issue _right now_.

Because right now Enjolras is hovering next to the mailboxes in their apartment building and he’s sporting some pretty impressive dark circles around his eyes. And he’s pale, paler than on any other given day. A ghost would be envious of that complexion. Which is really not a compliment, because ghosts are, well, pretty dead. 

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says and opens his mailbox. Rubs his temple. Squeezes his eyes shut. 

See, Enjolras is usually pretty good at saying _I’m fine_ and not conveying that his life is crumbling to pieces around him and all he can do is watch. But at the moment, he’s really not. What Grantaire just heard there was something like, _Death is on my doorstep_. _He just won’t leave. And I’m too tired to keep trying to shoo him off._

Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but that _I’m fine_ was definitely a lie and Grantaire isn’t sure if he should call Enjolras out on it. He’d probably forgive him for that as well, because that’s what he does now, but when Enjolras starts rubbing his temple, everyone knows that it’s time to go into hiding. 

“Are you sure about that?” Grantaire asks. He leaves the, _You don’t look so good_ , unsaid. Because despite not looking that good, Enjolras still manages to be ethereally beautiful somehow. Scientists everywhere are in awe and will most likely never figure out how he does it.

“Work was a nightmare this week,” Enjolras says, like that explains everything. It does, in a way.

“I thought your job is always a bit of a nightmare?”

The law firm that Enjolras works for takes on a lot of charity cases, because Valjean is nice like that, and Enjolras loves to donate some extra hours to those cases. The problem is that he’s not very good at telling when it’s time to stop. To sleep, or to eat, or to do anything that’s not work, and unwind just for a little while. Grantaire thinks that maybe, if Enjolras learned how to take a fucking break, work wouldn’t be that much of a nightmare. 

And yet, Enjolras loves his job, as stressful as it is. Enjolras would wilt like a flower without at least a smidgen of stress in his life. A nap here and there wouldn’t come amiss, though. 

But what does Grantaire know? He’s a freelance artist. He works from home and there it’s just him – no colleagues, no secretaries, no need to prove anything to anyone. He’s his own boss. He makes his own coffee. Nobody cares if he calls it a day an hour early.

“It was extra nightmarish this week,” Enjolras says. He rubs his eyes. “I feel like I have a migraine coming and right now I’m wondering if I can successfully talk myself out of that.”

“Not sure if that’s actually possible. You should ask Joly about it.”

“Well, it’s never worked so far, but I suppose it’s worth a try.” Enjolras, a bag full of groceries dangling off his arm, another one at his feet, at last succeeds in pulling a bunch of letters out of his mail box. “How are you?”

“Good,” Grantaire says. Standard response. Today it’s actually true and he doesn’t want to keep Enjolras around for much longer than strictly necessary, because he looks like he needs a 12-hour nap. 

Grantaire checks his mailbox – nothing – and picks up the bag at Enjolras’ feet. “I’ll help you with this, okay?”

“Okay,” Enjolras says and the fact that he’s letting Grantaire help him right now is worrying. Even without the temple-rubbing and eye-squeezing. A nine and a half on a zero-to-ten worrying scale, Grantaire would say. 

He follows Enjolras over to the elevator and watches with growing concern as Enjolras pushes the button three times as if that will make it move faster in any way. He’s restless and at the same time he looks like rest is the only thing in the world he needs right now. 

Today, the elevator seems to take a particularly long time to make it all the way to the ground floor and Enjolras huffs and puffs until the doors finally slide open. 

Enjolras, after a few years of working as a lawyer, could probably afford a much fancier place by now, but apparently he loves the rattling elevator and the stained walls. In some way, there’s a sweet irony in the fact that they’ve ended up living in the same building. There was a time when Enjolras didn’t even want to be seen in the same country as Grantaire. And for a long while, Grantaire thought that it was a good thing that they didn’t live on the same floor, but recently, ever since, well, a few weeks ago, Enjolras has been coming upstairs to ask for seemingly random ingredients – eggs, sugar, flour – like he’s baking a cake, except that his visits are days apart.

Every time, Grantaire invites him in for coffee and they talk. They _talk_. About the most ridiculous things. About work and movies and Enjolras’ cat. Last week, Enjolras showed up on Grantaire’s doorstep, not to “borrow” an egg, but to ask Grantaire if he wanted some Chinese food. All that talking has fed the butterflies that are living (rent-free) in Grantaire’s stomach, proving rather resistant to the painful death that Grantaire has been wishing upon them.

Grantaire glances at Enjolras before he pushes the button for his floor. 5 for Enjolras. He doesn’t hit the 7 just yet. 

“I got it,” Enjolras says when he notices.

“Listen,” Grantaire says, “you just don’t look like you can juggle that briefcase, your mail and two bags of groceries right now.”

Enjolras only lets out an annoyed groan, but doesn’t stop Grantaire from following him out of the elevator on the fifth floor. Enjolras’ apartment is at the end of the hall, where they are greeted by the fluffy beast that Enjolras calls his cat. He’s huge and black and one-eyed and his claws are murder weapons. He’s called Buttercup, which is the name the people at the animal shelter gave him. That’s where Enjolras picked him up about two years ago. 

Grantaire has been calling the beast Captain Hook behind his back. Enjolras heard him once or twice and he almost looked like he found it funny. Today the way Grantaire and Buttercup immediately enter a staring contest doesn’t even tickle a twitch of the lips out of him. Must be feeling really rotten, then. 

“Just put it on the counter in the kitchen,” Enjolras says with a nod at the bag Grantaire is carrying. “Thanks, Grantaire.”

“He thanked me,” Grantaire says to Buttercup. “Who would have thought–”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. Something about how crumpled his face is looking makes Grantaire snap his mouth shut. 

“Do you need anything?” Grantaire asks. 

“I’m just going to lie down,” Enjolras says and starts for his bedroom, the second bag ending up on the counter as well, precariously hanging off the edge. 

Grantaire nudges it closer to the wall. “Do you want a cup of tea? Soup?”

He made Joly soup, a lot of soup, enough soup to feed a family for a week, last winter when he had the flu. But Enjolras doesn’t have the flu, so soup is probably not the right way to go. 

“Aspirin,” Enjolras says.

“Where is it?”

“Bathroom.” Enjolras wanders into his room and Grantaire slips into the bathroom to find the aspirin and tracks down a glass of water in the kitchen, which is the worst mess Grantaire has encountered in a long time. Which should be expected from Enjolras. Top notch lawyers don’t have time to do the dishes. 

“Found it,” Grantaire says as he walks into Enjolras’ bedroom. He’s never been in here. Enjolras’ closet is open; Grantaire can spy a familiar red coat and a pair of Converse that he hasn’t seen Enjolras wear in months. There are bookshelves and Grantaire feels a surge of extreme satisfaction when he sees _the couch_. It’s an old one, standing between bookshelves, covered in a heap of discarded clothes. Grantaire has a chair like that in his bedroom as well. He smirks at the couch before he turns to Enjolras.

He’s already shucked off his work clothes and has pulled on a faded shirt. He’s sitting in his bed, eyes closed. Enjolras cracks an eye open when Grantaire sets down the water on his nightstand.

“Anything else?” Grantaire asks.

“Could you close the curtains?” Enjolras asks. His voice is quiet, like speaking any louder would be too exhausting. 

Grantaire shuts the curtains and Enjolras sighs. “Done,” Grantaire says.

“Thanks,” Enjolras mutters. 

“Are you gonna be okay?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just a migraine,” Enjolras says.

“ _Just_ a migraine?”

“They don’t get so bad,” Enjolras says. He wiggles down, shoving the sheets out of the way in the process and Grantaire can’t tell if it’s intentional or not. “I get a bit dizzy sometimes, so I’ll stay in bed for the time being.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” Grantaire says. He shifts his weight. “Is it safe to leave you alone here?”

“Hm,” Enjolras says.

“That wasn’t helpful,” Grantaire says.

Another _hm_ and Enjolras turns over. Grantaire rolls his eyes at him, but Enjolras doesn’t care because he’s on an express train to Dreamland, and when has he actually ever cared about Grantaire rolling his eyes at him?

Grantaire’s problem remains and it’s 100 percent a Clash song. Should he stay or should he go? He has some pretty conflicting information. Enjolras said his migraines don’t get so bad, but he also said that he gets dizzy and what if he faints and hits his head and dies and it’s all Grantaire’s fault?

He does the only thing he can do: he tugs the sheets over Enjolras to make sure he won’t get cold and then he slowly, quietly sneaks out of Enjolras’ bedroom and closes the door. In the hallway, he gets out his phone and calls Joly, who gives him the most elaborate lecture on causes and symptoms of migraines, at the end of which Grantaire decides that he couldn’t possibly leave Enjolras on his own. 

So Grantaire takes care of the groceries, putting them in places that they most likely shouldn’t go, but Enjolras’ kitchen is a mystery and Grantaire isn’t too keen on figuring out whatever system is behind it. If Enjolras wants to give him shit for putting his cheese in the wrong spot, so be it.

Since he’s already in the kitchen and the dish tower in Enjolras’ sink is borderline frightening, Grantaire decides to tackle those dirty plates and mugs. Honestly, how many mugs can one person have? 

It doesn’t take that long in the grand scheme of things and soon Grantaire is stranded in Enjolras’ kitchen, not sure what to do with himself. Minus being in Enjolras’ apartment, that’s not a state that’s new to him. Still. 

Buttercup is watching him from the hallway like the cat version of the Grim Reaper, ready to pounce. 

“What are you looking at?” Grantaire says.

Buttercup makes a hissy noise and stalks off. 

In need of guidance, Grantaire once again pulls out his phone and calls Jehan. Because Jehan is the kind of person who might also frequently find himself in other people’s apartments without their explicit permission for the strangest of reasons. 

“Ah, shit…” Jehan says when he answers his phone, and then, “Hey, Grantaire.”

“Bad time?” Grantaire asks.

“Zipper of my skirt is stuck in my shirt. So I guess I’ll just wear it until the end of time. What’s up?”

“I’m in Enjolras’ apartment,” Grantaire says.

“Breaking and entering? That’s a new one, even for you.”

Actually, Grantaire is not a stranger to the business that is breaking and entering, although it was his own apartment that he broke in to, so it probably doesn’t count. And this is different. “I was invited,” Grantaire says. Or at least Enjolras didn’t kick him out when he helped him with his bags. 

“That’s reassuring. But it also makes this whole affair a bit more boring. We’ve all been invited into Enjolras’ apartment before. I fondly remember that one time you rearranged his fridge magnets.” 

Grantaire glances at Enjolras’ fridge. _Coffee_ , the magnets say. The rest is a jumbled mess, although the p, e, n, i and s are dangerously close to each other, but not so close that it’s noticeable at first glance. It’s a joke that bears Courfeyrac’s handwriting. 

“You’re not doing that again, are you?” Jehan asks.

“I have a hard time restraining myself, but I want to live to see another day, so I’m keeping my hands off the magnets. For now.”

“So, why are you there?” Jehan asks.

“Enjolras has a migraine and I helped him with some stuff and now I’m not sure if I should leave. He didn’t ask me to stay, but what if he, you know, is about to drop dead and there’s no one here.”

“No, it’s good that you’re staying,” Jehan says lightly. “That way you can check if he’s still breathing every now and again.”

“Wait, what? Should I be doing that?”

“Relax, I was kidding,” Jehan says. “I think.” 

While they’re talking, Grantaire rearranges Enjolras’ fridge magnets by color, making sure that the p, e, n, i and s stay where they are. He also leaves the ones that spell out _coffee,_ just in case it’s an important secret message and not an incomplete shopping list or a reminder that Enjolras is always running out of coffee and that every day is a good day to buy more. 

Jehan eventually hangs up because, “Something is on fire.” If something is on fire literally or figuratively is not disclosed to him and Jehan is gone before Grantaire can ask. 

Grantaire spends the next ten minutes exploring Enjolras’ kitchen, only interrupted by Buttercup who returns to the kitchen door, glaring at him from the threshold.

“I’ve never done _anything_ to offend you,” Grantaire says.

Buttercup meows, as if he’s trying to say something like, _You are offending me right now_. Probably just by being here. 

Grantaire shoos him away from the doorway and steps out into the hall, glancing into the living room. Enjolras lives in a state of organised chaos and in a _if I need this again in the next twenty-four hours there’s no point in putting it away_ kind of world. Grantaire understands, in a way, because he mostly just dumps things on the floor and picks them up again every now and then when he’s running out of clean shirts, and he doesn’t do the dishes until they threaten to overtake the kitchen, but Enjolras’ chaos also applies to his work. His desk is Grantaire’s worst nightmare. Grantaire likes his workspace neat and whenever it threatens to become anything but, he knows that it’s time to take a break. 

Hovering in the hallway, Grantaire ponders his next step. He’s decided a long time ago that he’s not going to leave. Despite Buttercup, who is now circling around his legs like he’s trying to figure out which part of Grantaire he’s going to eat first. 

Steps feather-light on the tiled floor, Grantaire sneaks down to Enjolras’ room. Even though Jehan most likely was kidding when he said that Grantaire should check if Enjolras was still breathing, it can’t hurt to sneak a peak into his room to see if he’s okay.

When he opens the door, the hinges creak and the lump under Enjolras’ bedsheets stirs.

“Are you awake?” Grantaire whispers. “Do you need anything?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t move again. “Why are you still here?”

“Just making sure you’re not dead.”

For a moment, Enjolras is silent. Grantaire is sure that he’s asleep again, then he says, “Can you feed Buttercup? There’s instructions in one of the cupboards, I wrote them down for Combeferre once.”

“Sure,” Grantaire says. He’s fed many cats in his lifetime and it’s not exactly rocket science, especially when he has actual written instructions at his disposal. 

“And don’t scare him.” Enjolras’ voice is so quiet that it almost sounds like it belongs to someone else. “He doesn’t like other people that much.”

That’s a close contender for understatement of the year. “Duly noted,” Grantaire still says, because now is not the time for him to tell Enjolras that his cat is one of Satan’s most loyal minions. 

“And I need to cancel the meeting. Can you send ‘round a group text?”

“What meeting?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Enjolras, there’s no meeting tomorrow. Too many people out of town, remember?”

“Right,” Enjolras says. “I forgot. Sorry.”

“Go back to sleep,” Grantaire says, because Enjolras just apologized to him because he forgot about some minor issue and it’s unsettling. “I’ll be in the living room, yeah?”

“Okay,” Enjolras mumbles into his pillow. The fact that he doesn’t protest that Grantaire still isn’t going home should be worrying. Now, that’s at least an eleven on the zero-to-ten worrying scale. 

“Anyway,” Grantaire says, already on his way out the door, “no one would have believed me if I’d sent out a group text to cancel a meeting.”

Enjolras, half asleep, only huffs in reply. If it’s a confirmation of Grantaire’s assumption or a, _No, Grantaire, they would have totally believed you, we’ve left behind silly pranks like that a long time ago_ , shall forever remain a mystery. 

Grantaire’s eyes linger, for a moment that stretches on for an embarrassingly long amount of time, on the tuft of blond hair obscuring Enjolras’ face and then slips out the door.

He goes back to the kitchen and takes care of Buttercup’s dinner – Buttercup gives him another accusing stare before he starts to eat – and then finds himself some leftover pasta that looks like it doesn’t have a life of its own yet and that Enjolras hopefully won’t miss. Grantaire can always make more, although Enjolras didn’t look like he was particularly hungry or willing to move in any way at all. 

Grantaire makes himself comfortable in Enjolras’ living room. The coffee table is covered in notepads and old newspapers and magazines, and case files are piled up on a side table next to the couch. Looking around the room, Grantaire spots three more empty coffee mugs. 

He turns on the TV, eats Enjolras’ pasta and then picks up one of the empty notepads and starts to doodle. He and Musichetta have been talking about writing a children’s book together – Musichetta will do the writing, Grantaire the drawing. He already has a bunch of ideas and soon the sound of the TV turns into pleasant background noise.

Buttercup joins him on the sofa a while later, keeping his distance at first, but curling up on Grantaire’s legs after he gets himself a cup of tea.

Enjolras only has three kinds: green tea, Good Morning Sunshine tea, which might have been a gift from Joly, and one that’s from one of those create-your-own-blend websites called Not Guil-tea that has scrawled _for lawyers only_ underneath it in Combeferre’s handwriting. 

Grantaire goes with the green tea and works for a little while longer and eventually falls asleep on the couch. Buttercup is still at his feet and Enjolras’ couch is actually not as uncomfortable as some of the other couches that Grantaire has spent the night on in the past. He hates to name names, but _Bahorel’s couch_. That one is a real back-killer.

Enjolras’ couch, though, is a treat to sleep on. Enjolras’ apartment also isn’t affected by techno-loving neighbors the way Grantaire’s is. What a difference two storeys make.

He doesn’t wake up until something – a notepad – hits the floor. The sun is already up and painting a bright, golden patch on the living room floor. Enjolras is hovering next to the couch, picking up the notepad that Grantaire nicked from him last night. 

“Hey,” Grantaire says and sits up. Buttercup is nowhere to be found. “Feeling any better?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, and he sounds weary, but the usual Enjolras-ness is back as well, so Grantaire can stop being worried now.

“Great,” Grantaire says, because he knows better than to add an _are you sure_ to this conversation. 

“You didn’t need to stay.”

“Joly told me to,” Grantaire says and that’s, strictly speaking, a lie. Joly said no such thing and Enjolras doesn’t look like he believes him either, so Grantaire adds, “And I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” Enjolras says and there’s something soft in his features now. “I’ll take a quick shower, but if you’d like to stay for breakfast…”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Grantaire feels like he’s about to depart on a walk of shame. He feels like he got caught sneaking out of some guy’s or girl’s apartment in the early hours of the morning. It feels like something it isn’t. They’re just friends and he slept on the couch, so why does this conversation seem so awkward?

Because. Maybe they’re not _just_ friends. Any maybe it’s not just Grantaire who’s noticed that things have, very gradually, changed between them.

It’s Enjolras who decides that this conversation needs an _are you sure_ in it after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, shoving Grantaire into the great abyss of indecision with three simple words.

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Grantaire says. Which is a pretty shitty thing to say, retrospectively, because now Enjolras either has to say of course he wants him to or he has to admit that he actually doesn’t want him to and was just trying to be polite.

Although Grantaire has a feeling that Enjolras wouldn’t have asked in the first place if he didn’t want Grantaire around anymore. Enjolras isn’t one for fake politeness, not when he doesn’t absolutely have to be, and certainly not this early in the morning. 

“I want you to,” Enjolras says, and when he says these things, they are facts. 

So Grantaire nods, begs off to the bathroom, where he spends a solid minute marvelling at the mess that is his hair, and then takes over the kitchen and makes coffee and finds some eggs and toast while Enjolras takes a shower. 

He almost wants to go to the bakery down the street to buy some pastries, but he doesn’t want to take Enjolras’ keys without permission either. So he gets involved in another staring contest with Buttercup that lasts until Enjolras reappears, in a shirt and jeans, his hair still a little wet at the tips, way too put together for a Saturday morning, especially since he looked like he was about two steps away from the grave last night. 

Enjolras picks up Buttercup, pets his head and receives a jackhammer-purr for his efforts. “Thanks for feeding him.”

“Yeah, I was starting to wonder why he was glaring at me so much. I thought he got that from you, maybe, but I guess he was just hungry.”

“I don’t…” Enjolras trails off when he sees that breakfast is already taken care of. “I could have done that. Although I suppose your eggs are better than mine.”

Grantaire grins and pours Enjolras some coffee.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Enjolras says.

“Like what?”

“Like I said something dirty,” Enjolras replies and snatches away the plate Grantaire is holding out to him before marching out the door.

Grantaire frowns at his retreat until he realizes that Enjolras’ kitchen table hasn’t been used for its original purpose in a very long time and follows Enjolras to the living room. Buttercup is on the windowsill, tail swishing, watching Grantaire with his head tilted. 

In a fit of unreasonable childishness, Grantaire wants to stick out his tongue at him and it must be showing on his face somehow, because Enjolras shoots him a bemused look. “I know he can be difficult, but you don’t have claw marks on your face, so I daresay you actually got along.”

“Really,” Grantaire says. But then he thinks of how Buttercup sat on his legs for the better part of the evening without any death glares in sight, so he adds, “Actually, yeah, we did.”

Grantaire eats his breakfast in silence, complimenting himself on his egg-making skills, and finally puts his plate down on the coffee table. 

Enjolras sets down his plate as well and it’s accompanied by a small sigh. He glances at Grantaire, fiddles with his hands, glances at Buttercup, then back at Grantaire, like he’s not sure what to say or what to do, both of which are more than unusual. Eventually, Enjolras sinks back against the cushions, admitting defeat, and rests his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Enjolras’ really soft hair is an issue again. Because if Grantaire would stop lying to himself for a second, he’d have to admit that it’s been a nearly-non-stop issue for weeks now. Ever since Enjolras fell asleep on him, just like this, at a movie night at Courfeyrac’s and Grantaire ended up with Enjolras’ hair in his face. If brutal honesty comes into play, Grantaire has to admit that Enjolras’ hair has been in the Top 10 of his day-to-day issues ever since they’ve met. 

“I can’t believe I’m still tired,” Enjolras says.

_I can’t believe you’re doing this to me right now_ , Grantaire almost says. In the end what comes out of his mouth is something that sounds like, “Ungf.” He clears his throat. He can do better than _ungf_. “Just take it easy today. I know it must be so hard for you, but–“ He stops when Enjolras turns his head and a curl tickles Grantaire’s chin. Suddenly, he has nothing at all left to say. 

He can only hope that Enjolras isn’t taking notes on how Grantaire can easily be silenced. Because cuddling up to him and letting his hair tickle Grantaire’s chin currently has a 100 percent success rate.

“Am I too close?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire doesn’t pick up where he left off.

“What?”

“Would you like me to move?”

The abyss of indecision has once again opened its dark, gaping mouth. Thing is, Grantaire thought he was over this, which he isn’t, really, who was he kidding, and part of him, the part that has a bachelor’s degree in Self Destruction, says, _this is fine_. The other part of him is crying in a corner somewhere and is currently refusing to speak to him. 

Enjolras takes the decision away from him and scoots away. At which point Grantaire realizes that he really didn’t want him to move away. Quite frankly, Grantaire should have known from the start.

“Actually it was fine,” Grantaire says. Except that his face feels like it’s on fire, so perhaps _fine_ wasn’t the right word. 

Enjolras hums but doesn’t put his head back where it was either, so they’re just sitting there, so close that they’re nearly touching and Enjolras so warm that it’s not just Grantaire’s face that feels like it’s on fire anymore. Seconds tick by, and they watch as Buttercup chases a speck of dust across the floor, minutes tick by, and Grantaire thinks he should leave, but he really doesn’t want to, and he has a feeling – and he really can’t tell where that one came from – that Enjolras doesn’t want him to leave either. 

Grantaire doesn’t mind the silence that’s only broken by the tip-tap of Buttercup’s paws on the wooden floor as he flits about the room. There’s something comfortable about this. There’s a familiarity in it that Grantaire can’t really explain. The two of them are very rarely silent in each other’s company.

Enjolras always has something to say. Even right now, Enjolras is probably burning to break the silence. The only reason he doesn’t, Grantaire thinks, is because Enjolras, too, is surprised by how easy this silence feels. 

Rubbing his eyes, Enjolras lets out another small sigh. Grantaire has never seen him look so deflated, despite the appearances, the fluffy hair and the clean clothes. He knows that Enjolras wouldn’t let just anyone see him like this and Grantaire mentally pats himself on the back for somehow managing to get introduced to the small circle of chosen ones who are allowed to behold Enjolras in a less-than-perfect state. 

At some point, Grantaire is going to have to leave, even though he can’t say that he’d mind sitting here with Enjolras for the rest of the day. He keeps his eyes on nothing in particular and shifts, ever so slightly, until their arms are touching. Using his words would be more helpful in his endeavour to get Enjolras to put his head back where it was before, but he feels like he’d ruin this if he started talking. 

Enjolras just glances at him, and there’s a question in it. Grantaire tilts his head and hopes that he’s giving Enjolras the answer he’s looking for. A smile flits over Enjolras’ face and he leans back against Grantaire. 

This time, on a whim, Grantaire puts an arm around him.

“Thanks for making breakfast,” is all Enjolras has to say to that. 

“Anytime,” Grantaire says. Maybe he’s leaning a bit far out the window now. But he’d make Enjolras breakfast every single day if he wanted him to. 

“We should have lunch together as well,” Enjolras says and Grantaire can’t decide if it sounds more like a suggestion or a question. It’s a bit of both. “And dinner. Not today, but… some other day.”

“Are you asking me…” Is Enjolras asking him out, is what he wants to know. His stomach does a somersault and Grantaire silently tells it to keep it’s fucking chill. “What are you saying right now?”

“I’m saying we should go out and eat something and talk about things. Is this a bad time to ask? Maybe it is. Still, I think–” 

“Okay,” Grantaire says before Enjolras gives himself another migraine.

“Good.” Enjolras mumbles it against his neck and it makes every single coherent thought Grantaire has had all day go fuzzy. 

“I think I’m going to take a nap.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says again. “I’m going to stay right here.”

“Good,” is, once more, Enjolras’ answer.

Grantaire, with great care, brushes a very soft strand of hair out of Enjolras’ face. And then, with even greater care, he kisses the top of Enjolras’ head.

A content hum is the only reply he receives.

This time, Grantaire doesn’t even bother telling his stomach that it’s enough with the butterflies already. 


End file.
